


Anamnesis

by iwearanearhatnow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: (because I'm lazy), Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, No Mary, PTSD John, Panic Attacks, Short One Shot, Sort-of Johnlock, Three Years After Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-19
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-02 04:49:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2800160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwearanearhatnow/pseuds/iwearanearhatnow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stricken, dazed, John checks the date on his watch and, when the pixels resolve into meaning, feels himself plummeting toward some unseen ground.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Three years after Reichenbach, John still has trouble coping.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anamnesis

**Author's Note:**

> Holy crap, I decided to post my first fanfic some time ago and it's got over 500 hits now, which is something I _never_ expected to happen. So I'm feeling a bit more confident now and wanted to try my hand at something different - namely angst.
> 
> Many thanks to [Emotional_Mayhem](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Emotional_Mayhem) for beta-ing as usual.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, and feedback is always appreciated!

The morning dawns unseasonably warm with a splash of sun in the sky and a splash of blood on the pavement. Sherlock’s on his knees, the fabric of his slacks scraping the concrete and his finger painted with still-damp blood, the sun augmenting his usual manic spryness. John, standing over him, scrubs sleep from his eyes and tries to figure out why he feels as though the sun is bleaching all his colour away.

Lestrade had called them before the sun was up, dragging Sherlock from memories which only surface at night and John from a dream he no longer remembers but nonetheless is glad to be rid of. It’s a brutal murder this time, a man’s brains violently relocated from the inside of his skull to the outside of a nearby building, and Lestrade is eager to clean it up without making a scene. Sherlock, more than happy to oblige, already pours words out in Lestrade’s direction. Something about a strong drink and a simmering resentment. For once, John’s attention is not fulling trained on Sherlock; instead he wades through his exhaustion-drenched mind for the source of his fragmented emotions.

The sound of Sherlock’s voice fades into the ambient hum of an early London morning and John refocuses on his friend. Sherlock brandishes a self-satisfied smile and his bloody fingers like a trophy; Lestrade speaks rapidly into his cell. John, in studying the scarlet on Sherlock’s alabaster skin, attracts his friend’s attention. Sherlock offhandedly smears the dead man’s blood on his scarf tails and, frowning, says, “John?”

In that instant, John’s disjunct thoughts fuse together. The juxtaposition of the soft blue and the steely red, the puddle of blood on the sidewalk, the forgotten dream -

Stricken, dazed, John checks the date on his watch and, when the pixels resolve into meaning, feels himself plummeting toward some unseen ground.

_Oh god, no._

“John?” Sherlock’s head is cocked, his piercing eyes scrutinizing John from beneath furrowed eyebrows. “What’s the matter?”

John, struggling to focus on Sherlock’s voice through the chaos in his head, tries to set his world upright again and fails. “Nothing,” he hears himself say, even as his heart pounds desperately against his ribs and he fights to breathe despite the sudden and painful constriction of his chest. The smell of blood suddenly seems too potent. John, honestly unsure whether or not he is still standing, presses his palms hard to his eyes as though he could crush the memories beneath their weight.

Sherlock, watching his friend, had known something was wrong when John’s face had gone stony and his eyes had clouded over. But when John drops to his knees, face buried in quivering hands, Sherlock feels a surge of panicked helplessness. He has enough experience to be able to recognise the symptoms of a panic attack and even to know what to do in case of one. But theoretical knowledge and the ability to apply it to your visibly overwhelmed best friend are two different things. Sherlock knows something must have triggered John, but what? Is he flashing back to Afghanistan? All Sherlock can think of is the body, but John has seen hundreds of bodies, thousands even, he’s seen more blood and death and hell than even Sherlock has, there’s no way that could be it. Sherlock analyses John (pupils dilated, breathing unsteady, pulse elevated, sweating a little, had the dream again last night), flicks his eyes from the dead man on the ground to the live one in front of him, and deduces the answer.

_May fourth._

Sherlock kneels down in front of his friend. “John.” John’s breath hitches in his throat, and he shudders but does not respond. Sherlock tries again, more insistently. “ _John_.” John makes a small noise of pain. Sherlock isn’t sure, but he thinks John may be crying, and he knows he _needs_ to snap John out of this _now_.

John, drowning in the blackness behind his eyes, feels Sherlock’s hands on his and is confused. He knows the difference between the past and the present, between the time where Sherlock isn’t and the time where Sherlock is; he simply does not know which time is now. He can hear Sherlock’s voice, yes, but he has hallucinated that many times before and he knows better by now than to trust his senses. But Sherlock’s hands are undeniably warm on top of his own, and unexpectedly soft - how can someone who works with caustic chemicals and corpses on a daily basis have such soft hands? - and he’s lifting John’s hands from his eyes, clasping both of John’s hands in one of his large ones. “John,” Sherlock says, and John focuses on that coffee-smooth voice, uses it as a lifeline to pull himself up from his depths. “It’s alright, John, I’m here.”

John’s hands tighten around Sherlock’s, gripping them tight like Sherlock imagines John once gripped the handle of his gun, white-knuckled and shaking. “I’m here, John,” Sherlock repeats. He knows there are other words he should say, words he _needs_ to say, but he cannot find them. He had a surplus of words only minutes ago, but he seems to have wasted them all on the corpse. Now he has none left for John, but John needs them, and Sherlock needs John - John who, three years later, still cries out for Sherlock in the throes of his nightmares, still falls apart at the sight of blood on Sherlock’s scarf, still has not healed from the wounds Sherlock inflicted on him.

“John,” he says, as a last-ditch effort to bring his friend back to himself, “please.”

John does not quite understand what Sherlock wants from him. Please what? Please don’t be having a panic attack, please don’t have PTSD? A sarcastic, slightly hysterical laugh bubbles up in John’s chest at that but sticks in his throat. Distantly he realises he is hyperventilating, and he hopes to god he passes out soon and has done with it.

There is a sudden pressure under John’s chin which it takes John a moment to identify as a hand. Thin fingers dig into his jaw on either side, forcing John’s head up and surprising him so much he opens his eyes. A wave of lights and colours and images breaks over John, tearing him from his tenuous mooring and leaving him thrashing about, barely able to keep his head above water. He is choking on his panic -

\- And in that instant, his eyes meet Sherlock’s. Familiar eyes, blue-green like sunlight through a beaker of chemicals, their usual luminance diluted by concern and fear. John anchors himself to those eyes and uses them to drag himself ashore. _He’s here. He’s here._ Sherlock’s hand grips John’s face so tightly John can feel his friend’s pulse beating against his jawline. John focuses on that, regulating his breathing - in for four, hold for seven, out for eight - and wills his desperately hammering heart to slow to match Sherlock’s. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand back with crushing force, which helps quell the shaking in John’s hand but not in the rest of his body.

A moment passes, or an eternity, or a moment comprising several eternities, John isn’t sure. But finally the universe tips back onto its axis and John is in control again. He sucks in a breath, hisses it out slowly, feels the pressure of the surrounding air lessen. He smiles weakly at Sherlock.

John tries to speak, ends up with a dry croak, tries again. “Sorry.”

Sherlock shakes his head hard enough to displace his curls. He realises belatedly his hand still cradles John’s chin and he awkwardly lets it drop, acutely aware of the lingering sensation of skin-to-skin contact on his fingertips. There are white imprints from his fingers on John’s skin. “Don’t apologise,” he tells John. “I should have -”

“John!” Lestrade’s voice, brimming with worry, prevents Sherlock from saying what he should have done. “What happened? Are you alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” John says, stiff upper lip immediately back in place despite the fact that he’s still on his knees and trembling. “Just felt a bit ill, that’s all.” He pulls himself to his feet, fighting a bit with his wobbling legs. Sherlock’s hand darts out to help him but stops just short of touching John’s elbow.

None of this is lost on Lestrade but, proper English gentleman that he is, he doesn’t mention it. “You should go home, then,” he says instead. “Lie down a bit, you know.” He looks to Sherlock uncertainly. “Unless there’s something else about the case...?”

Sherlock blinks once, his brain changing tracks from _overwhelming concern for John_ to _consulting detective on a case_. “I’ve done everything short of handing you the murderer gift-wrapped with a shiny bow on top,” he says, characteristic condescension in his deep voice. “Surely even you can handle it from here.”

Lestrade, too relieved at having some normalcy returned to this situation to be insulted, hastily answers, “Yes, of course.”

“Good. We’re going then. Come, John.” Without sparing another moment for Lestrade, Sherlock turns and strides resolutely away. John, still a bit hazy, manages only a distracted “right, yeah” to Lestrade before hastening after Sherlock.

The cab ride home is filled with thick, deafening silence. John knows he ought to apologise to Sherlock for going to pieces, and at a crime scene no less, but he knows he is barely capable of words that heavy even in the best of states, and in any case Sherlock is practically allergic to human emotion. Sherlock, a few inches of world-space and a few kilometres of head-space away, drums his fingers on the cab door, every neuron in his considerable brain searching for a way to right the damage he has done to John.

Ultimately, neither of them speak.

It is not until later that evening that either man acknowledges the incident. John has taken a long, hot shower; Sherlock has exchanged the offending blood-stained scarf, along with the rest of the day’s clothes, for his red dressing gown; they have shared an uncomfortable dinner of Indian takeaway across the cluttered kitchen table. John, having finished eating quickly (old habits die hard), leaves Sherlock picking at his chicken tikka masala and gets up to make tea. It’s a soothing ritual - the string of the tea bag draped over the edge of the well-worn mug, the hot water washing over the tea bag, the reddish-brown colour spreading throughout the mug.

John leans against the counter and sips at his tea, relishing its bitterness and almost scalding heat. He studies his friend, trying to make out how Sherlock feels about what happened that day, but all he manages to notice is the slight stubble coming in on Sherlock’s chin, the extraneous crease in his shirt that means he hasn’t been folding his laundry properly again, the fading scar that still stands out across the back of Sherlock’s left hand. Nothing useful.

“I...” John gulps his tea. “I think I’m going to go to bed now.”

Sherlock mumbles something that might be a garbled “alright” around a hearty mouthful of chicken. An awkward silence ensues, during which both men once again consider bringing up the subject they’ve been tiptoeing around for hours and once again decide against it. Finally John turns on his heel and strides toward the bedroom, taking the tea with him.

It is not until nearly an hour later, when John is lying in bed with his eyes still open for fear of where he’ll go when he closes them, that he hears Sherlock take up his violin. A few preemptive strokes of the bow, a few wobbling pitches as he tunes, and then, to John’s surprise, a piece he recognises. Bach, if he remembers correctly, a piece he once made an offhand comment to Sherlock about liking when he had come home one day to find Sherlock learning it. He had never in a million years expected Sherlock to remember he had liked it, but here Sherlock was, playing it with a gentle finesse that was rather unlike his usual irritated scraping.

John lets his eyes close and focuses on the music. He thought Sherlock would give up after he finished the piece, but to his surprise, the music continues, drifting delicately through the flat and lulling John to sleep.

Sherlock, perched in his armchair, plays all the Bach he knows, until his violin is covered in a thin coating of rosin dust and the shape of the strings is imprinted on his fingertips. He knows if he stops playing John will wake up, and god knows John needs the sleep. So Sherlock plays until he cannot keep himself awake any longer, until he too drifts off to sleep with his violin resting in his lap.

Neither man is plagued by dreams that night.

 

 


End file.
